


love calls you by your name

by blue_spectacles



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Jughead needs a hug, M/M, Panic Attacks, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, being accused of murder is not fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-14 02:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10526727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_spectacles/pseuds/blue_spectacles
Summary: The soulmate au/crossover pairing mashup thing no one asked for, but I desperately needed to write for some reason.Jughead's soulmate isn't anyone he would have guessed, a boy from another town who also likes murder walls and sarcasm. Jughead assumes they'll never meet anyway, so who even cares?Stiles wants to meet his soulmate, even after learning he's a person of interest in an ongoing murder investigation. What do you even do when your soulmate might be a murderer? If you're Stiles, you get obsessed with the case, obviously.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Riverdale 1x07 and mild spoilers for Teen Wolf (Stiles' first name.)
> 
> This pairing idea would not leave me alone until I wrote it. So even if nobody else reads this, I guess I might as well put it up here. 
> 
> Also, sorry there's no smut in this - there is plenty of angst though.

Some people have a soulmate. Jughead never assumed he would be one of them – his parents weren’t, and no one he knows has one. If you put a gun to his head and said he had to guess who his soulmate is, he might hazard a hopeful, hesitant guess at either Archie or Betty. But the name that appears on his narrow chest – scrawled in impressive curling cursive letters – is neither _Archibald_ or _Elizabeth_.

It’s _Mieczyslaw_.

Jughead doesn’t know anyone with that name. He doesn’t even know how to _pronounce_ that name. He’s not even sure what language that name originated in.

He looks it up eventually, because of course he does – it’s Polish and means ‘glory.’

Jughead assumes he’ll never meet this person. Which in a way is a great relief, because that’s one less person for him to disappoint with his cruddy life, and one less person who can betray him. No one can disappoint anyone if they simply never meet, and either way, he doesn’t need the drama of a soulmate added to the supremely fucked-up mess that is his life.

Time passes and Jughead does his best to put the soulmate thing out of his head. The mark is on his chest, but he doesn’t have to look at it. So he has a hypothetical “better half” running around out there, somewhere on the planet. So, what? Maybe they’re just as messed up as he is. He was stupid for ever imagining – hoping, praying – that his soulmate could be someone as perfect and shining and ordinary as his friends, when he’s homeless and his dad’s a drunk and, oh yeah, he’s a person of interest in an ongoing murder investigation.

Who could be soulmates with _that_?

(Who the _fuck_ is Mieczyslaw?)

Jughead puts it out of his head.

Until he gets called to the principal’s office, for the second time in one week. The first time he had gone in to find Sheriff Keller and Principal Weatherbee looking at his murder wall, faces hard and frozen. He’d been dragged downtown for questioning. Everyone saw the sheriff leading him out of the school. _What this time? What?_ His heart rate starts rising and he has to struggle not to panic – not to have a meltdown in front of his whole class.

Betty sees how pale he gets when his name crackles over the announcements and she reaches across their desks to grab his wrist and squeeze.

Archie, sitting behind him, rubs his shoulder. “It’ll be okay, man,” he whispers.

But they don’t _know_ that. Already, Jughead's mind is conjuring a dozen worst case scenarios. The teacher sees him sitting there, frozen, petrified and makes a swift gesture towards the classroom door. “You heard the announcement, Jones.”

He stands, the sound of his chair legs squeaking back against the floor loud, loud, so painfully, awfully loud. The class is silent, all eyes turned to him. They’re all thinking the same thing: did the police find some new evidence against him? Is he being arrested for a murder he didn’t commit right now?

Reggie says something he can’t even hear because the blood is rushing so loud in his brain.

When he gets to the office, he’s momentarily relieved to see Sheriff Keller isn’t there. Jughead sits down stiffly, his heart still pounding, trying to crawl up his throat.

“Hello, Jughead,” says Principal Weatherbee. “This came for you.” He slides a thick, glossy envelope across the desk. It’s emblazoned with the seal of the agency that specializes in tracking down soulmates. First names aren’t a lot to go on, but everyone is registered with the database as soon as their mark appears.

Jughead stares at it like it’s a live thing that might bite him.

Of course, the agency isn’t always right, they make their best guess. But he can’t imagine there are too many _Mieczyslaws_ running around out there with _Forsythe_ tattooed on their chests. So.

So.

His palms are sweaty and he can’t make his arms reach out and take the envelope. 

Weatherbee nudges it a little closer, so it’s almost sliding off the desk. “In the old days, of course, we didn’t have the agency’s databases to help us find our soulmates,” the principal says, his eyes tired and sad as he looks at Jughead. “Some went through their whole life never finding their mate, but knowing they were out there, somewhere, perhaps in another country. Can you imagine anything more tragic?”

_Yes,_ thinks Jughead. _Finding them, meeting them, and watching the realization dawn on their faces that they’d drawn the short-straw in the soulmate lottery._

Soulmates didn’t always end up together, and Jughead has a feeling that living in a janitor’s cupboard while trying to avoid his drunk biker dad and _oh, by the way the authorities think I killed someone,_ is probably enough to make even the most starry-eyed romantic soulmate enthusiast say “you know what . . . we should just be friends. Friends that never call or see each other.”

But Mr. Weatherbee is looking at him, and if he says he doesn’t want to meet his soulmate, well, that’s going to send up all sorts of red flags – words like “antisocial” and “disturbed” come to mind - and Jughead really, really doesn’t need anymore labels like that heaped on him. He forces his hand up with robotic stiffness and touches the corner of the envelope, dragging it off the desk and crumpling it a bit against his knee.

Mr. Weatherbee’s mouth is turned down. He looks graver than Jughead imagines he usually looks when giving out news of this nature. “Of course, we’ve never had a case such as yours . . .”

Jughead swallows. “Mine?” it comes out like a croak.

“I’ve spoken to Sheriff Keller, and he believes if would be best if you didn’t leave the area. Until this business with the investigation is resolved.”

It hurts that Mr. Weatherbee believes Jughead could be capable of murdering Jason Blossom. It hurts so badly. He feels the sting of tears in his eyes and fights them back, forcing his head to nod in a jerky, sharp motion. He stands abruptly, crumpling the envelope further.

He turns and leaves the office without another word.

 

*

 

Jughead shoves the envelope in his bag, but of course his friends are curious. Betty sees it while they’re sitting together for lunch and squeals, snatching it up before he can stop her. “Oh my God, Juggie! You have a _soulmate_?” her eyes light up, flashing brightly.

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Archie asks, looking strangely hurt.

Jughead looks down at his food and says nothing.

“Can I open this?” asks Betty, “oh my God, can I? Please?!”

She’s so happy for him and it twists viciously in his gut because he can't even be happy for himself. Jughead stabs at his food with his crappy plastic cafeteria fork. “Fine,” he mutters. Whatever. No big deal. He’s never going to meet them. It doesn’t matter what it says in that envelope, right? Let her read it if it will make her happy.

Betty opens the envelope neatly and pulls out one single sheet of paper. “M – Muh – is this a typo?” she asks. 

Archie takes the paper from her and laughs. “What? This has gotta be a mistake.”

Jughead sighs and takes the paper back again. _Mieczyslaw_ ’s last name is _Stilinski_. He’s their age, and goes to Beacon Hills High School in California.

There’s no picture, no real information on the person. There’s a summary of his grades (they’re excellent) and a note on extracurricular activities. Just one: _lacrosse_. So he’s a sports guy. Like Reggie. (And Arch, he reminds himself, trying not to panic. Jocks aren’t all bad.)

Still. He can’t wrap his head around his soulmate being someone like that. 

“So, are you going to meet him?” Betty asks, practically vibrating with excitement.

“It says here you can request a phone number or email contact. They won’t give out the person’s info, but they’ll pass yours on if you want, and they can contact you . . .” says Archie, tapping the bottom of the sheet, like Jughead can’t read.

He shrugs, shaking head. “No, and no,” he says.

Archie and Betty both look at him surprised and sad, like he just told them he was cancelling Christmas. And why should they care? It’s _his_ soulmate.

“What? Why?”

“I’m not meeting them,” he tells them, trying to keep any trace of emotion out of his voice.

"But Juggie . . ." Betty reaches out to touch his arm and he pulls away.

“I don’t care.”

 

*

 

“Seriously? You have a soulmate? You have a soulmate named _Forsythe_ and you never mentioned this?” Scott asks, taking the paper back from Stiles and laughing. “This is awesome, man! Wow. I’ve never known anyone with a soulmate before.”

“Well, I have,” says Stiles, taking the sheet back from him. “And I didn’t tell anyone because _Forsythe_ sounds like a hundred year old man.”

“Well, according to this he’s _our_ age,” says Allison, from where she sits across from Scott at their table, their knees knocking together in a sickening display of puppy love that has Stiles rolling his eyes and gagging.

“Yeah, don’t think I wasn’t relieved to read that,” he says. “But what kind of parents name their kid ‘Forsythe Pendleton’ it’s like they’re asking for him to get beat up-”

“It’s probably a family name,” says Scott, “like yours.”

“Are you curious about him?” asks Allison.

“Obviously, of course, I’m curious!” says Stiles, all but growling. “I have a _soulmate_! Do you have any idea how _huge_ this is? I’ve been dying to know this person since I got my mark – you know, despite their terrible name. I just wish this stupid sheet had more information! What am I supposed to do with this? It doesn’t tell me anything!” he takes a breath. “Okay, I am relieved to know he’s not, like, eighty, or something. But he lives in a place called Riverdale, which is not even in this state.”

“It says he works on the school paper,” says Allison. “And he’s taking AP Philosophy and English classes.” 

“Good. No, wait,” Stiles runs a hand up through his short, buzzed hair. “Back up. Not good. Not good at all. What if he thinks I’m an idiot?” 

Scott frowns, “Stiles, you get straight As.”

“Yeah, but what if this guy’s like _Lydia_ -level intelligent?”

“Nobody’s Lydia-level intelligent,” says Allison. “Besides, he’s your _soulmate_ , he’ll like you just as you are.”

“What if he thinks I’m just a dumb jock? Like Scott?”

Scott gives him a look. “Then you two can bond over how _terrible_ you are at spor . . . ah ha,” Scott clears his throat, “you can do clever people things. It will be beautiful.”

“You have no idea what those things are, do you, Scott?”

His friend shrugs helplessly and Stiles rolls his eyes.

To be honest he is pretty nervous about meeting _Forsythe_ , but he still wants to, more than anything. He knows how beautiful soulmates are. His mom and dad were soulmates, once upon a time, before she died. Stiles wants what they had. 

Stiles wipes his hands on his pants nervously. “God, I have to meet him.”

 

*

 

Fred Andrews is _in loco parentis_ right now, so all the agency shit comes through him. He’s not quite as starry-eyed about the whole thing as Betty and Archie, but he does have a certain misty-look in his eyes when it comes up, and Jughead guesses Fred wishes he had a soulmate instead of just a regular, failed relationship.

But people don’t judge you when normal relationships fall through - it’s just a thing that happens and it’s shitty, but that’s life and everyone understands. But when a _soulmate_ rejects a _soulmate_ that’s epic shit right there, and that’s what will happen if he ever meets _Mieczyslaw_ and it will all be Jughead’s fault.

So when Fred brings up, for what must be the hundredth time, that his soulmate’s sent him his contact info and would love to chat, Jughead can’t really meet his eyes when he shakes his head. He’s curled up on Archie’s bed, mindlessly fiddling with his friend’s guitar.

He hasn’t felt like doing much of anything lately. Archie keeps trying to get him to play some videogame, which normally he’d be all over, but now, now . . . it’s like there’s a stone in his chest, pressing against his heart. 

“You could just drop a quick e-mail . . .” Fred says, softly, gently. “Just to say ‘hi.’”

He shakes his head again.

Fred sighs. “Listen, son. I really think you should try-”

“No,” he says, his voice coming out rough and hoarse. Crap. He can’t start crying now. Archie is sitting a few feet away, trying to come up with some new lyrics. Fred is staring at him like he’s breaking his heart. “No. Please. I can’t do it. I just can’t.”

He’s clutching the guitar too tight. His knuckles whiten.

Fred shakes his head. “It’s a rare gift, Jughead. A beautiful thing.”

He’s so tense he’s shaking.

Fred eventually retreats, back downstairs.

Archie gently pries the guitar from his hands and sits beside him on the bed, strumming a few comforting melodies. Jughead’s almost started to relax when Archie says: “I don’t see what’s so bad about it. Having a soulmate, that is.”

Archie doesn’t have a soulmate. Yet. There’s no set rule on when the mark will appear, if it does.

Jughead just shrugs, not looking at the wall. Not looking at anything. He wishes he could go through life without being hurt by these things.

“Just play me your new song.”

 

*

 

Stiles expects his dad to be happy for him, but instead he’s kind of weird about the whole thing. Eventually, Stiles gets the truth out of him: “Look, I know you want to meet your soulmate, and usually that’s what’s best for everybody, but . . . in this case.”

“What?” Stiles asks, pushing himself off the kitchen counter, where he’d been leaning while they drank their morning coffee. “What is it, Dad?”

Sheriff Stilinski’s mouth turns into a grimace. He looks tired and pained by what he has to tell his son. “The sheriff from Riverdale, Keller is his name, reached out to me. Sort of a professional courtesy, I guess. Apparently _Forsythe Pendleton Jones_ is a person of interest in an ongoing police investigation.” 

“What? What’s the investigation for?”

Sheriff Stilinski groans, buying a few precious seconds by sipping at his coffee.

Stiles is agitated now, though, bouncing on the soles of his feet, and almost looks ready to snatch the mug away from him. “Come on, Dad, if you don’t tell me you know I’m going to find out. I –” 

He sighs heavily. “It’s a _murder_ investigation, Stiles. A kid your age was murdered. It's . . . I'm sorry, son.”

Stiles looks dumbfounded, like someone just ripped the ground out from under him. He almost actually loses his balance. Stilinski hates it and he hates himself for being the bearer of such bad news. 

“No. But. Wait _. No._ He’s a _person of interest,_ you said, that means not even a suspect, right? It means they don’t have, you know, that much- they don’t have proof -” 

Stilinski’s eyes narrow. “Oh, you are kidding me. You’re not meeting him. It’s off the table.”

“Come on, Dad! He’s my _soulmate_! And – and innocent. Probably. Probably totally innocent.”

“You don’t _know_ that!”

“And you don’t know he’s guilty! He hasn’t been charged with anything, right?” 

“ _Yet_ ,” Stilinski stresses, rubbing his forehead. “Stiles, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but . . . but it’s just the reality. Sometimes soulmates . . . it doesn’t work out. Even with soulmates. I’m sorry. I really am. I know how much it meant to you.”

" _Means_ to me. How much it _means_ to me, Dad," Stiles stares at him, looking like he’s been punched in the gut and Stilinski hates it. He can’t stand seeing that look on his son’s face.

He wishes he could take it all back, but it’s the truth and his heart feels like it's breaking as he watches Stiles fold slowly to the floor. He takes a step towards him, but Stiles holds up a hand. “No . . . Dad. I just need . . . to be alone.”

 

*

 

He shouldn’t be surprised, Stilinski tells himself. After all this time he should just, generally, stop being surprised by his son. He resists the urge to bang his head against the wall when he sees what’s spread out all over Stiles’ bed, bedroom floor, computer desk and tacked to the walls.

It’s everything that’s been made public about the Jason Blossom murder case over in Riverdale, including some stuff which probably hasn’t been, actually, made public, which Stilinski’s too tired to question right now.

He picks up some back issues of Riverdale’s local paper, wondering how the Hell Stiles got those, so quickly, but then, knowing his son, when he’s obsessed with something . . .

Stilinski sighs heavily. “Stiles . . .”

“He’s my _soulmate_ , Dad. Come on, I _know_ you know how it felt. Feels."

The sheriff knows better than to argue, lowering himself instead into the nearest chair. “Well, what have you found out?”

Stiles shrugs, frustration pouring off him in waves. “Not much. But he couldn’t have done this.”

“You don’t know that,” Stilinski says quietly, but firmly. 

“Dad,” Stiles looks at him then, and he can tell he hasn’t slept. He holds up an autopsy photo of a dead teenager with a bullet hole in his head. Stilinski grimaces. “Do you really think the person who’s _my soulmate_ could be capable of this?”

Stilinski opens his mouth, but the words die on his lips. He has to keep Stiles safe, but the despair in his boy's eyes, the haggard look on his face, is tearing him apart. “You don’t know anything about this person,” he whispers.

“Uh – _YEAH_ , because no one will tell me anything and he won’t communicate with me and now you say I can’t meet him.” Stiles sounds hysterical, almost close to tears and Stilinski can’t. Just can’t. 

  
“Stiles.” 

“I just – I just _need_ to meet him, Dad. Just once. There’s no law that says soulmates have to get married or anything. If I meet him and he’s, I dunno, biting the heads off baby kittens or something, I’ll just leave and never mention it again – I don’t know, I don’t know what to do, but. But I _have_ to meet him. I have to know. _I’ll go crazy from not knowing.”_

Stilinski exhales a shaky breath. It stretches between them, but he looks around at the room, newspapers and police reports and theories from message boards and crime scene photographs and even a map of Riverdale stapled to the wall and he knows Stiles isn’t exaggerating. He’ll never stop thinking about this, worrying about it, _obsessing_ over it.

“. . . okay,” he says.

Stiles’ eyes light up so fast it hurts his heart. “ _Really_? We can go to Riverdale? I can meet him? Really?”

“But I’m going with you, and I want to be with you the whole time,” Stilinski warns. “We’ll meet in a public place and if I say this kid is bad news, then you have to listen and not argue-”

“Yes, yeah, totally, fine, whatever,” Stiles says, jumping up and hugging him.

Stilinski is stunned for a moment, but hugs his son back tightly. Hoping he isn’t making a terrible mistake.

 

*

 

“The agency called again this morning. They say he wants to meet you, your soulmate,” Fred says, when Jughead comes downstairs for breakfast.

It takes a minute for the words to sink in. He’s frowning, but before he can even say no, Fred has ploughed ahead: “he and his dad are coming all the way from California, so you _will_ meet them.” Fred declares in a dad-voice, a voice that allows for no more arguing. 

Jughead feels like he’s sinking. He’s trapped. He’s drowning. The dread crawls up from his belly into his throat. He can’t eat his toast. He can’t even take a sip of coffee.

Fred sighs, rubbing his face tiredly. “It doesn’t have to be a big thing, you know? They just want to meet you and your dad-”

God no. No. No. The universe hates him. The universe must hate him, that’s the only possible explanation.

“Yeah, right.”

Maybe his dad will be too drunk to show up anyway, there’s always that. Then he just has to . . . what? Pretend to be normal for a couple hours? Pretend to be someone worthy of a soulmate, when so many good people, like Archie and Betty, don’t have one? His hands start shaking and he drops the coffee. It explodes all over the floor.

He tries not to take it as an omen.

 

*

 

Stiles sits in the taxi, the bright yellow retro-looking cab, leg jangling nervously. His dad sits beside him, looking exhausted. Stiles is too nervous/excited to be tired, despite the plane ride. They stopped briefly at a motel to wash up, and now they’re on their way to Pop Tate’s, a diner which has been around since the 1940s, when they called it a chocolate shop, and it’s still in operation, complete with a retro theme and staff in vintage costume. Stiles knows this because he looked it up. It’s got good reviews.

Stiles has looked up _everything_ on Riverdale since his dad said they could make the trip. Stiles read “ _A History of Riverdale_ ” cover-to-cover on the plane, so he knows it started out as a maple syrup empire with the Blossom Family and the Cooper Family, who eventually had a falling out, some say involving murder. And apparently the families still have bad blood between them to this day, and there’s a possibility this is connected to the murder of Jason Blossom, whom Stiles has of course been reading everything he can find about. The Coopers now run the local paper, which explains the hostile tone in most of their articles about the case.

It’s an interesting case and he wishes his soulmate wasn’t tied up in it, because it would be more fun if he didn’t have that complicating factor weighing on him. Stiles is naturally pretty paranoid, so, despite what he said to his dad, he can’t just dismiss the fact that his soulmate is _maybe a killer_ because that would just be Stiles’ kind of luck, wouldn’t it? 

His leg keeps bouncing and he can’t help it. His dad doesn’t say anything, looking out the window at the town roll by. His dad’s wearing a tie for the occasion – very respectable - and Stiles worries that maybe he should have put more effort into his wardrobe than usual – he’s just wearing his normal sweatshirt and baggy jeans. He starts tapping on his leg. Oh well, too late now.

The cab pulls up outside Pop’s, the neon signs glaring down at them. It’s early evening, but the sky is already tinging dark. The air is colder than he’s used to, but inside the diner looks warm. “Well, here goes,” he says.

His dad’s looking at him. “Son, whatever happens in there . . .” 

“It’s okay, Dad,” says Stiles. “Really.”

The older Stilinski looks like he doesn’t quite believe that, but they’ve come too far for him to change his mind, so they walk up to Pop’s and enter.

 

*

 

The diner is quiet for once, which somehow makes it all worse. Jughead can hear his own thoughts and fears too loudly, they’re crowding his brain. The only thing interrupting them is his dad’s stupid comments, spoken too loud and not-quite slurred, but too loud, and obnoxious, like drunk people get, making Jughead wish he could just disappear into the bench, through it, through the ground.

At least they’re alone for now. Maybe FP will calm down . . . probably not. FP sits in the booth next to him, and Jughead thinks, unkindly, if only he was just a _little bit_ drunker maybe he would have passed out on the couch again and done everyone a favor.

As it is, FP is just drunk enough to be talking loudly about what _a goddam_ _stupid waste of time and utter amount of bullshit the_ whole soulmate situation is, and how Jughead would be better off without this guy, who’s sure to be a loser ( _right, Dad, you’re the expert on that.)_ “What did you say his name was, again? Meow-meow?”

“ _Mieczyslaw,”_ he says quietly, staring at his plate of untouched fries and burger. Yeah, the day has finally come when Jughead doesn’t want to eat. His stomach feels like butterflies throwing up other butterflies. “It’s Polish.”

“Yeah, whatever. My son deserves better than some asshole from California.”

“Dad. Stop. Please.” He’s drowning. His skin is too tight and crawling with bugs.

“Well, whatever happened to that Betty girl you were working on the school paper with? What about her, huh?”

“She’s not my soulmate.”

“So? Your mom and me weren’t soulmates,” he says, like that’s a glowing endorsement. Jughead snorts and FP’s hand comes down on the tabletop so hard the cutlery rattles. A glass bounces towards the end and falls of, smashing. “It’s BULLSHIT!” FP shouts. 

Pop comes over, and Jughead starts apologizing, but Pop tells him it’s okay. He’s looking at FP, though, a heavy frown on his normally friendly face, and Jughead imagines what he’s seeing, what his soulmate’s going to see.

The door to the diner chimes as it opens and Jughead can’t. Fight or flight. He bolts around Pop, heading for the washroom. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He can’t fucking breathe.

 

*

 

Sheriff Stilinski notices that the diner is mostly empty, except for a man in a leather jacket, slumped in his seat. There’s food set out for two, though, and it looks like someone just spilled a milkshake. “Mr. Jones?” he asks, walking forwards, extending his hand. “I’m Noah Stilinski, and this is my son, Stiles.”

“Yeah, right . . . look, I don’t care. I don’t care who you are, I don’t care about any of this,” the man says, and Stilinski can smell the alcohol on his breath from a mile away. He frowns. This is what he was afraid of. Stilinski slowly retracts his hand. Stiles, trailing behind him, is oddly, thankfully, quiet.

“You think you can just waltz in here, take my son away from me, because of some stupid goddamn mark? My boy isn’t like that. He’s not gonna have nothin’ to do with this.”

“Where is your son, exactly?” Stilinski frowns, looking down at the uneaten food on the table.

“None of your business! None of your goddamn business! I didn’t agree to this meeting – it’s a waste of my time.”

Behind him, a large man in a retro-style smock, the owner, he guesses, is tapping Stiles on the shoulder. He pulls him aside for a moment, says something to him that Stilinski can’t hear. His attention is drawn back to the rambling man in front of him. His son’s soulmate’s father. Great.

He’s about to suggest they just leave, but when he turns back after a split-second Stiles is gone. 

Of course.

 

*

 

Jughead looks up as someone enters the washroom. Crap. Crap, crap, crap, crap, crap. He’s braced against the wall, struggling to get air in. He keeps sucking in air, but he can’t – it’s not enough – he feels like he’s drowning. His heart is going crazy and his hair is damp with sweat, falling in front of his eyes. He barely sees the guy, until he’s standing next to him, but gratefully not crowding him.

“Hey? Are you alright?”

_No_. He shakes his head. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. He’s going to pass out.   
  
“It’s going to be okay. Concentrate on your breathing.”

He’s trying. He’s _trying_ to breathe, but the more air he sucks in the more he feels like he’s drowning.

“Not so fast. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay, just . . . trust me for a second?” The stranger inches closer, reaches out a hand like he wants to touch Jughead, then seems to think better of it. “Look, I don’t want to make things worse by freaking you out. You’re hyperventilating. I can help. Just take your hands off the wall . . .” he’s speaking slowly and calmly. He does sound like he might know what he’s doing.

Jughead, in the haze of his panic, is desperate for anything to make this stop, so he gradually peels his hands off the wall, even though he thinks he might fall over at any second.

The boy nods. “Okay, now turn and face me. It’s okay, you’re doing great. Here, put your hands up like this . . .” he says, cupping his own hands and holding them over his mouth, like a mask. “Just trust me, it works, like this. Do what I’m doing.” He’s breathing into his hands. “Time your breaths with mine. Come on. Hands up. It’ll be okay.”

Jughead’s arms are shaking, but somehow he does what the boy tells him, manages to copy him.

Amazingly it works. After a while he begins to feel like he can breathe again. The room stops spinning. He backs up until he’s leaning against the wall and slides down, sitting at the bottom, relieved and tired and embarrassed. 

The stranger sits down across from him, cross-legged on the floor. “Better?”

He nods. “How’d you know what to do?”

“I used to get panic attacks all the time, after my mom died,” he says quietly. Now that he’s not feeling like he’s about to die, Jughead notices the boy has short brown hair and big brown eyes. He’s wearing an old sweatshirt. 

“Crap . . . sorry.”

He shrugs. “It was a long time ago. Uh. I’m Stiles, by the way.” 

“Jughead.”

The boy looks at him. “Seriously?”

“Jughead Jones the Third.”

Stiles’ lips quirk. “Alright, now you’re just messing with me.”

“. . . maybe.”

“Nice hat, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you just going to answer me in single words for this entire conversation?” 

“Hmmm.”

“Okay, that one wasn’t even a word.”

And it’s nice, this. Sitting. Talking. Jughead can almost feel something relaxing inside him. Of course, this isn’t his soulmate, but for the first time he’s beginning to think that maybe he can go out there, and face things.

“Well . . . I should get back. I’m supposed to meet someone,” says Stiles, though he looks a bit regretful. “If you’re sure you’re okay. The owner was worried.”

“Shit. I didn’t mean to worry Pop.” Jughead sighs, head falling back against the wall. “Thanks . . . by the way.”

“No problem,” Stiles says, standing. He offers Jughead his hand.

He takes it and in that second when their skin touches they both know. A spark runs through them, igniting under their skin. Jughead lifts his eyes to Stiles’, wide with shock and Stiles doesn’t let go. 

“Oh, wait, are you . . .?”

Jughead stares at their clasped hands, Stiles’ skin is warm against his. Burning warm. He’s never felt anything like this. Colours are flying all around them.

“You’re _Mieczyslaw?”_

“And you’re _Forsythe_?”

“It’s a family name.”

“Yeah, mine too.”

A second later, Stiles pulls him up off the floor, into a hug. A monstrously tight hug.

“Sorry if this is weird I just really have to hug you right now,” Stiles says, all in one breathe, against Jughead’s ear. He’s warm, so warm. What is this? Is this having a soulmate?

For the first time in years – in his life, maybe – he feels safe.

“Shit. Sorry,” says Stiles, letting him go only enough to cup his face in both hands. It’s too sudden for Jughead to pull away and surprisingly he doesn’t want to. “I didn’t think I would feel – like this. This intense. When I touch you-” 

Jughead can’t trust himself to speak. He nods, enjoying that it involves pressing against Stiles’ hands, his fingers gently brushing the sides of his face.

“Why? Why didn’t you ever write to me? Oh my God, were you in here having a panic attack because of _me_?”

“I . . .” Jughead pulls away, even though it feels like pulling off his own skin. “I . . .” the things he wants to say, won’t fit through his lips. “I just . . . I didn’t . . . I didn’t want you to think . . .”

“What?”

“Well, my dad’s probably out there, making a complete ass of himself, right? And . . . I . . . I mean I’m nobody’s idea for a soulmate.” 

“Okay, first of all? You don’t know what my idea of soulmate is. Secondly, who cares about your dad, alright? You’re not him.”

“Yeah . . . well . . . tell that to the rest of Riverdale.”  

“What . . . are you talking about the investigation?”

_The investigation. Sheriff Keller. The interrogation room. A file on a desk. He’s a kid from the wrong side of the tracks, with a deadbeat dad. Nobody likes him._

His soulmate knows about that?

Jughead’s brain goes blank with static

 

*

 

_You shouldn’t have said it, dude you shouldn’t have said it – not that way, not just blurted it out like a big, tactless idiot!_ But, as usual, Stiles’ mouth went off before his brain, and the way his soulmate is looking at him now – stricken, literally stricken like Stiles just reached out and smacked him across the face – twists his heart inside out.

“No! I’m sorry, I just meant – Yeah, I know about it, the case. You see, my dad’s sorta a sheriff, the sheriff, of Beacon Hills, so, so-” _Not helping not helping! Abort! Abort!_ He screams internally as Jughead’s face just drains of colour. He couldn’t have gone paler faster if Stiles opened one of his veins.

“But it’s fine, it’s all good, because I know you didn’t kill him. I mean you probably didn’t kill him. Uh, just to be clear on that: you _didn’t_ kill him, right?”

_Damn it, Stilinski, you truly are a fuck-up of epic proportions_ , he thinks as Jughead’s face crumples.

Those weren’t exactly the words he meant to say, or that wasn’t precisely the way he meant to say it. Plus, he was gonna add a whole lot of other things, like: if you _did_ do it, I’m sure you had a good reason - like self-defence! but he never gets to that second part. The washroom door crashes open again, and his dad is standing there, looking more tired and aggravated than Stiles thinks he’s ever seen him. Okay, Stiles does make him tired and aggravated a lot, but still.

“What’s going on in here? Stiles – ”

“Dad, uh-” and he’s stumbling around for words, because Jughead is all but cringing against the wall now, resolutely not looking at either of them. Looking, in fact, like he might cry, and oh God, if Stiles makes his soulmate cry within the first hour of meeting him he truly is the scum of the Earth, isn’t he? “Dad, you – you uh, you need to meet –”

“Oh? Is this him?” his dad says, sounding uncharacteristically cold. He grabs Stiles’ arm. “Come on, we’re going.”

“What? Dad, no, wait-”

“I have had about enough of this diner and the _charming_ company –” he hauls Stiles out of the washroom and a second later is pushing him through the diner. Jughead’s dad is gone, so they must have gotten into it – _no, no,_ Stiles thinks – also, _but he just left his kid here alone? That’s pretty cold._

“Dad, listen to me –”

“No, _you_ listen to me. You promised me when we made this trip that you would respect my opinion. I spoke to that man for ten minutes and I’m fairly certain he’s a criminal. Did you know there’s a biker gang here, a pretty serious one too, the Southside Serpents? Who knows what that kid is mixed up in-”

“Dad, that’s not his fault! And you didn’t even talk to Jughead –”

“Oh? So it’s ‘Jughead’ now? I thought it was Forsythe. Or was that not ‘gangster’ enough?”

“DAD!” Stiles shouts, so loudly the few other people in the diner turn to look at them, including Pop. His dad colors slightly, neck turning red, but he finally stops and Stiles stands up straighter. “One. Adults should never use the word ‘gangster’ just please don’t. Two. I don’t think ‘Jughead’ is a name with a ton of street cred. Three. I cannot believe you are literally not even going to say two words to my soulmate." 

His father looks at him, but he’s stopped dragging Stiles through the diner, so that’s a plus. “I just want to protect you.”

But the name _Forsythe_ is emblazoned on his skin, where it burns. Where it feels like a compass needle pointing. Stiles can’t let it go, can’t just leave and pretend he doesn’t feel the pull of his soulmate, his soulmate hurting.

“Please, Dad, just give him a chance.”

Over his dad’s shoulder now he can see Jughead has emerged from the washroom, but isn’t exactly approaching. He’s slouched against the wall, arms crossed protectively in front of himself, watching them warily.

No one moves or speaks. Even the other patrons are hushed. The proprietor is watching them curiously from behind the counter.

“I didn’t,” says Jughead and his voice is quiet, but calm and it carries in the stark silence of the diner.

Stiles turns to face him.

“The answer to your question,” he clarifies. “I didn’t kill Jason Blossom.”

His soulmates name is warm against his chest and Styles just knows he’s telling the truth. It’s crazy, but he trusts this boy. Just like that. “Yeah,” he says, “I know.”

Jughead doesn’t smile, exactly, but something in his eyes maybe softens a little. 

Stiles’ dad is looking between the two of them, and he’s frowning and there are tired lines around his eyes and creasing his forehead. “I know you believe him, son. But Sheriff Keller said –”

“Ah, that Sheriff Keller doesn’t know what he’s on about," a voice drawls from the front doors. A bearded man walks in, followed by a redheaded teen in a letterman jacket. "He’s just kissing up to the Blossoms, they want a suspect so Keller’s out to find one. Sorry we’re late. My name is Fred Andrews, and this is my son, Archie. We’re friends of Jughead.” 

Fred reaches out to shake Stilinski’s hand. “Why don’t you sit down? Come on, Pop makes the best burgers in town. Now, you can’t tell me you’re gonna leave without trying one?”

“Yeah, you know I am starving,” says Stiles quickly. “Let’s get food. All the food. And you can tell us good, non-murdering things about Jughead.”

Fred laughs briefly at that, ushering them over to a table while at the same time, gesturing for Jughead – who has still been holding himself cautiously aloof – to join them. “Now, did you know Jughead here was actually trying to _solve_ the murder of Jason Blossom, that’s how this whole trouble started.”

“He's doing a series of articles about it for the school paper,” the redhead, Archie, chips in. “Jughead’s an amazing writer.” 

“And a great detective. You know these kids actually managed to track down the car Jason and his girlfriend were going to use to runaway together?”

As the conversation unfolds, Jughead makes his way over and sit beside Stiles, which makes his heart do all kinds of things.

Sheriff Stilinski slowly begins to look like maybe he’s realizing he was too hasty in his judgement, as Archie and Fred go on about the investigation. Jughead remains rather quiet, but shoots the Andrews an unmistakably grateful look.

“So, you’re a writer?” Stiles says, “and you write about crimes. Well, I’m going to be a detective so you could, I dunno write books about me brilliantly solving mysteries.”

“I am _not_ going to be the Watson to your Sherlock Holmes,” replies Jughead dryly, but there is the hint of an amused smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

“Oh, come on, please? It could be a series. We could option movie rights."

“And sell out my artistic integrity?” Jughead mock-gasps, shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, _I_ think it has franchise potential. And you should see some of the weird shit that goes down in Beacon Hills. I have a police scanner in my room and trust me you would get tons of great story ideas.”

“Interesting . . .”

Stiles takes a chance and reaches down to touch Jughead’s hand. He brushes his skin lightly and after a few seconds, Jughead slides their fingers together.

“Wow,” says Stiles.

“What?”

_Your smile,_ Stiles thinks, realizing he hasn’t seen it before. He’s stunned by the way it transforms Jughead’s face. But if he starts going on about that, he’s gonna sound as cheesy as Scott talking about Allison, plus he thinks Jughead might get embarrassed if he starts talking like every sappy pop song ever. “This burger . . . is amazing.”

Jughead nods, but that smile is back, lighting up his eyes now, and Stiles’ heart swells.

He's pretty sure that between the two of them they'll be able to solve this case and clear his soulmate's name. He's never been a believer in 'happily ever afters' - kind of hard to be, when he saw what happened with his mom and dad, but he wants to believe that he and Jughead have a chance.

                                               

 

 

 

 


End file.
